Deep Fried Extra Crispy
by Dizzo
Summary: What can I say, our boy Dean has been very, very irresponsible. Um, OK, so are we in any way surprised?    A little one shot because I felt like doing something silly ...


I felt like doing something silly, and this little one-shot is the result ...

Now, our boy Dean has been very, very irresponsible. Um, OK, so are we at all surprised?

Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my twisted and warped mind.

xxxxx

DEEP FRIED EXTRA CRISPY

It was the height of midsummer and the Winchesters had settled into a fair to middling hotel on the edge of a small, dull Midwest town which had all the charm and personality of a growth of lichen.

Right now, however, dull was good; dull was exactly what the boys were looking for.

The previous week had seen the brothers live through three bruising hunts, an impressive variety of minor injuries; "just how did you get those carpet burns on your butt, dude?" and over two thousand miles on the Impala's clock.

Add to that the oppressive midsummer heat which stifled and strangled the life out of each new day, weeks upon weeks of blazing sunshine and a 'bury the needle' level of humidity which had both brothers wound up tight as drumskins and bitching at each other like a pair of menopausal housewives; the one thing they had agreed on was that a few days rest and relaxation were desperately overdue.

Xxxxx

Unfortunately the following morning, it became clear that Sam's idea of rest and relaxation was, in fact, 'instead of hunting fuglies, let's bust our 'nads doing chores instead', whereas Dean's idea was more along the lines of 'let's sleep in until our brain liquefies and then drink beer until our liver catches up with it."

As soon as Sam had mentioned the word 'laundry', Dean had disappeared outside faster than a rat up a drainpipe muttering about a mysterious knocking under the Impala's hood, that needed his immediate attention.

The door slammed leaving Sam standing alone in the middle of the room, clutching a bundle of rancid shirts to his chest and watching a lonely piece of paper fluttering idly in his brother's slipstream.

"Guess the laundry's up to me then? …" he sighed.

Xxxxx

For the best part of the day Dean worked on the Impala, lavishing his devoted attention on her; confident hands dismantling and lubricating her moving parts, strong arms waxing and polishing her paintwork until it gleamed. The hot sun beating down on his bare back; a bottle of cold beer in his hand, a rockin' good station on the radio.

He was in his own personal heaven.

Until, that is, he eventually stood up and stretched, rubbing a hot, grubby palm across the back of his neck.

"Ow, sonofabitch" he gasped, as the hot skin stung under his touch. "Ah crap," he thought with a grimace, "this is gonna be so sore!"

Xxxxx

He had been sitting on the bed with the after sun lotion for around ten minutes when Sam walked through the door, laden down with clean laundry, bags stuffed with groceries and a couple of pizza boxes.

Sam halted abruptly upon seeing figure on the bed. "Holy crap, dude; what the hell …?"

Dean was crimson from his pain-furrowed forehead to his hips and just about everywhere in between. He was gingerly rubbing aftersun lotion onto his raw, inflamed shoulders and chest; barely able to tolerate the hesitant touch of his own fingertips.

Sam stared, admiring his brother's scorched cheeks, "jeez bro', you been sunbathing under the hole in the ozone layer?"

Green eyes flashed angrily, clashing violently with a crimson nose. "Shut your piehole, bitch. I forgot; okay?"

Sam was locked in a violent internal battle between trying to feel sorry for the shrivelled, crispy creature on the bed and trying not to laugh. In the end he settled on distracting himself by trying to help.

"Uh, need a hand, dude?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, stop standin' there smirkin', and come an' do my back; I can't friggin' reach." was the irritable response.

Sam dutifully strolled over to the bed and knelt behind his brother; He squeezed a generous amount of the lotion into the his hand, rubbing it between his palms to warm it before placing his hands flat either side of Dean's spine, feeling the flinch as he made contact with the burning skin.

He sucked in a sharp breath as he felt the intense heat radiating from Dean's back; "I can't believe you worked on the Impala all day in that sun with no shirt or sunscreen," he muttered, "what are you, a moron?"

Dean grunted something inaudible and gasped, flinching as Sam's hands gently, but firmly, worked the cool, soothing cream into his raw skin from the nape of his neck, right down to the low slung waistband of his jeans. He writhed and twitched, back arching as he tried to worm away from the contact.

"Quit squirming man, stop bein' such a baby!" Sam scolded.

"Freakin' stings," Dean moaned in return, "an' your mutton paws ain't helpin'!"

"Well, it's your own damn fault, you idiot." Sam snapped.

"Stow your bitchin' Cinderella;" Dean snapped, "you're just pissed 'cos even deep fried extra crispy, I'm better looking than you!"

Sam shook his head fondly, ignoring the snark; "OK, I'm done bro'," he announced with a smile, absently landing a hearty slap on Dean's blazing back.

"Oh crap!" He gasped; immediately realising his mistake, and looked down at the twitching, wet-eyed heap on the floor.

"Um, sorry, bro!"

xxxxx

end


End file.
